Looking back...

This blog has been spinning around in my head for a few days, and now that I've come to town, I'm going to try to pull it out of the thought realm and into the blog world. It is mostly written for those friends and family who are beginning, or preparing to begin, new chapters of life... be it college, traveling, marriage, jobs, or SALT assignments [it is a bit strange to realise that many of my fellow SALTers are only just now beginning to live in their long term homes and start their assignments, having completed six weeks of orientation and language training].

Every once in a while, I pull out the SALT assignment information that MCC sent me so many months ago. In three pages, it describes the assignment, qualifications, living situation, etc. that I accepted when I chose to serve at St. Jude Junior School in Bukoto Parish, Masaka District, Uganda. Some of you may recall conversations and my thoughts from that time period... I was nervous, excited, and not at all sure what I was getting myself into. Now, skimming through the pages again, it is amusing to read the description of the village I have come to call home. I realise that my teaching assignment is very similar, though not exactly identical, to what was originally intended.

A month and a half ago, this place and lifestyle felt strange and foreign. I was eating new food, waking up earlier, working harder, meeting entirely new people, learning a new language, even learning to speak my native language differently than I was accustomed to. Everyone I met was a stranger, and even if I had met them before, I could rarely remember their names. I hadn't started teaching, and my first encounter with the teachers (before I had learned to speak Ugandan English) left us all wondering if I would even be able to communicate with my students, let alone teach them.

And yet, here I find myself, having lost track of the days and weeks I have spent in Uganda, coming to the end of my third week teaching. There are still challenges and frustrations every day, but mostly, the same place that felt so strange in August has now become my home, and the same people I wondered if I could ever get to know have become my family and friends. I now feel comfortable introducing myself as a teacher and actually understand what that means in my context. I am finding my place in Bukoto village and now only hear constant cries of "bye mzungu" when I leave the few miles where I frequently walk (like today, when I have ridden on a boda the 10 or so kilometres to town and walked through Masaka Town). Instead, the children have learned my names and call "Bye Nakaweesi" or "Bye Chrishtine".

There is comfort in knowing that tomorrow I will attend mass at a church which is too small to fit everyone from my village, even though the only parts I will understand are the prayer, "In the name of the Father, of the Child, and of the Holy Spirit" and the passing of the peace, "emirembe gya Katonda". There is comfort in knowing that Monday morning I will wake up before the sun, bathe, and take tea with cassava before walking to school for 10.5 hours of lessons, not all of which I teach. There is comfort in glancing at my watch and seeing the local time displayed, in this equatorial place where 7 am marks the first hour of day, and 7 pm the first hour of night. There is comfort in knowing that this afternoon I will return to my village and spend a few hours studying Luganda and hanging out with my friends and fellow teachers. There is comfort in knowing that tonight, I will eat matooke, beans, and probably meat or cabbage, while kneeling on a mat with my mother, brothers, and sisters.

My life has established routines full of familiar faces and places (rather than foreign ones). My teaching assignment and living context doesn't look quite like what was originally described or what I originally imagined. But it has worked out, as I have lived each day for what it is.

And so, to the many of you who are facing unknowns and starting down new paths with unfamiliar sign posts, whatever part of the world you find yourselves in... Take a breath. Step back. Slow down. Let yourself imagine what it will be like. Write it down, if you like. Then let go of what you have imagined. Loose your expectations to fly on the wind, and live each day as it comes. Each day will have its troubles and frustrations, some more than others. But each will also bring its own joys and triumphs, though they may not be quite like you expected or wanted. You will form new relationships, and though they may feel strange at first, depth and comfort will come with time. The road ahead will bring unexpected twists, turns, potholes, puddles, mountains, goat herds. Don't worry if it doesn't take you quite where you thought you wanted to go - just keep walking, one step, one moment, one day at a time.

And in a few weeks or months, you will stop to rest and glance back at where you have come. You will realise that what was once foreign now feels familiar, that what once felt like insurmountable challenges, have now become moments which bring confidence as you face new hurdles. You will recall your expectations and realise that some of them have indeed been fulfilled. And others, well, maybe you had forgotten that you even wanted or expected that. There will be parts of your life that didn't even make the original list... and you will be so glad that they happened. Life will have continued, and you will discover that you are exactly where you are.

So, my friends, if you can, hold loosely to your expectations and looser still to your fears and doubts. Let life take you where it will. And know that I am standing beside you (in spirit if not in body) as you face new challenges and celebrate simple triumphs.

Public Transportation

This passage is from my journal, dated 12th Sept, 2008, and describes my experience taking public transportation home the last time I came to Masaka.

It rained hard again yesterday, though I was inside the internet cafe for all of it. It has been cooler since the rain - yesterday I was glad to have brought my rain jacket, and today, I am wearing long sleeves even as I cook beside our small fire. I got to the taxi park around 5:00 yesterday, but it was already starting to empty. Note to self: don't stay in town so late! I got in the taxi to Kyanjalay, but it took forever to fill and leave, making me worry that I'd be stuck in town after dark. Anyhow, we eventually left the park, but kept picking people up. At one point, there were 9 adults in the five passenger car (4 up front; 5 in the back); at another, 8 adults and one baby. As we let people out, we kept picking more up. The man beside me wondered once where all these new people were going to sit - but it is the choice of the driver to pick up passengers and the responsibility of the passengers to figure out how to fit. As I sat there, cramped and slightly uncomfortable, sometimes feeling every breath the man beside me took and other times with an old woman half on my lap, I felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh. Not because of anything particularly humourous in the situation, but mostly just at the strangeness of it. Laughter seemed to be the only appropriate response to the situation.

Oh, yes, I obviously survived the experience and continue to ride in taxis when necessary, but mostly, I prefer taking a boda if I can.

Loving the mystery...

I have recently been meditating often on this passage from Wendell Berry (one of my favorites, which I was delighted to find in the book Melissa made for me when I came to Uganda), and have been thinking about memorizing it. It is worth reading and re-reading...

Manifesto:

The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head. Not even your future will be a mystery anymore. Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something, they will call you. When they want you to die for profit, they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something that won't compute. Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing. Take all that you have and be poor. Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands. Give your approval to all you cannot understand. Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered, he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers. Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias. Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into mold. Call that profit. Prophesy such returns. Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years.

Listen to carrion - put your ear close, and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh. Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful though you have considered all the facts. So long as women do not go cheap for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child? Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields. Lie down in the shade. Rest your head in her lap. Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it. Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go.

Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

This place where...

Third term has begun, and school has brought a new routine to my life. I am teaching English in primary 4, primary 5, and primary 6, as well as Maths in primary 5, and occasional English lessons to primary 7. As you can imagine, school keeps me very busy, but I also continue to learn Luganda and build friendships.

These lines have been running through my head lately, so I thought I'd share...

It still feels strange to me, this place where...

• I where socks and shoes when teaching on dirt floors to avoid jiggers.
• random people ask about the "rash" on my arms.
• so many people watch what I eat, fearing that I will lose weight and eventually waste away, while I have forgotten what "hunger" feels like.
• even the youngest students in baby class can be boarders.
• I treat my father with all the respect and submission due an African man.
• people are so eagre to have pen friends in America.
• I am never quite sure if I have spelled a word correctly.
• bad or poorly prepared food can turn a night into abdominal torture.
• reading and writing for pleasure seems strange to most.
• Friday afternoon lessons can be traded for digging in the garden and shelling corn in the back of the primary 5 classroom.
• I am expected to be weak and "delicate" because of my white skin and American citizenship.
• I teach dictionary skills to a class of 30+ students in a school with a single dictionary.

But it is beginning to feel like home to me, this place where...

• I awake before the sun to "shower" with a basin of cold water.
• I tuck myself under a mosquito net every night.
• I somehow often use phrases like "some few" and "somehow."
• my sentences are structured according to the syntactical rules of Ugandan English.
• I often feel like the pied piper as I walk to and from school amidst a crowd of students in various local school uniforms.
• my Luganda is slowly allowing me to communicate.
• drinking water must be boiled and is rarely cold.
• my skin has grown dark under the African sun, yet it is still only the shade of my brother's palm at dusk.
• we have no "sunrises" and "sunsets" because the sky lightens and darkens too quickly.
• I look forward to eating matooke for supper every night.
• my primary means of transportation are my own two feet or the backseat of a boda boda.
• I feel comfortable in a skirt or dress.
• I put on long sleeves on "cold" mornings, but shed them in the mid-day sun.
• I walk home with friends, stopping to shell groundnuts or learn a few new Luganda phrases along the way.
• I am beginning to learn student names and the routine of school.
• my back and knees sometimes ache, but I am steadily becoming more flexible as I learn the "right" way to sit and work.
• I am known as Nakaweesi or Chrishtine, and students greet me as "dear Aunt" when I enter a classroom.
• children spend their lunch hour playing in the sun and grass.
• most of the village greets me by name.
• I am rarely alone, but often find time for introspection.
• I write everything on the blackboard and watch my students copy it into their exercise books because we lack enough textbooks.
• "why don't you...?" is not a question, but an instruction about proper behavior.
• my friend escorts me halfway home after I have been to visit.
• some nights I wish the power were off, while others, I wish it were on.

These am I learning...

Lest the excerpts from my journal lead you to think that all my time is spent philosophisizing about my experiences here in Uganda, here are a few more random thoughts and observations...

-Njiga Olugana empola empola. Translated, that reads, I am learning Luganda slowly by slowly. My Maama teases me that I speak in "broken Luganda," and the sweet elderly priest tells me that learning languages is a feminine gift. Slowly by slowly, I am beginning to communicate in the local language. And, my Ugandan English has improved greatly in the last few weeks.

-My favorite mode of transportation is definitely the boda. There is a great sense of freedom in flying down the road... and it is always exhilarating to dodge other vehicles (in Kampala, this is causes more anxiety than exhilaration, at least sometimes), children, and bikes. I'm definitely planning to get my motocycle license when I return to the states.

-I have been learning to wash, cook and "dig" Ugandan style. "Digging" refers to any farming/gardening activities... this week, it has meant tilling the earth of our banana plantation with hoes.

-I can now carry 2 20 Liter jerry cans of water back from the well, one in each hand. Since we have started digging, we often fetch water in the evening. For me, I definitely prefer fetching water during the first hour of morning (around 6:45) rather than the first hour of night (around 6:45). I'd rather walk to the well as the sun is rising than trudge back as full dark is falling.

-School starts Monday. It was supposed to start this week, but the holiday got extended a bit to allow the builders extra time to finish working. I am excited and nervous... definitely something to keep in mind if you feel like praying, encouraging, or writing.

-Speaking of writing... if I post a letter to you, will some of you please keep me some stamps? Trust me, you won't all keep the same ones... it's always a guessing game as to what increments the postal clerk will have when I come :)

-The rainy season has finally begun in southern Uganda, though the rains are still much later and lighter than needed. It rained on Monday, hence the commencement of our digging activities this week. Since then, it has not rained again, though I have my rain coat today because the sky is cloudy and overcast. So, while northern Uganda needs the rains to stop, southern Uganda really needs them to begin.

-Yesterday afternoon, as we were cooking, Maama noticed a blister on one of my toes. I figured I'd bumped it against something and had counted it amongst the bruises, scrapes, and blisters I've been accumulating (remember how graceful I am?). She recognized it as a jigger, a small insect which burrows into the flesh of the feet/toes and lays eggs. Apparently mine had been there long enough to start reproducing, but she dug it out (with a safety pin) before it could spread. I think they're supposed to be pretty itchy after awhile, but mine didn't hurt at all. Thank goodness for a host mom who recognizes what I never would have!

Okay, signing off now and heading down to the taxi park in an attempt to beat the rain... :)

"Mjungu"

An excerpt from yesterday morning's journal...

This morning, for the first time in Uganda, I'm wearing my khaki linen skirt. Already it has a few traces of dirt, but mostly it stands out in stark contrast to the brown dirt and my tan skin. And I am certain the contrast would be even greater against the beautiful dark brown of my Maama's skin. Perhaps this skirt will not stay so white as I continue to live in the dusty dirt of Bukoto village (soon to become mud if the rains after begin in earnest), but then again, the way my sisters wash clothes, it has a decently good chance!

The contrast of this skirt and my skin makes me feel a little less white - and paired with my black cotton tank top with a collar, I feel a sort of professional confidence in this outfit. It will be good for teaching, simply for how it makes me feel. How strange it feels to admit that a simple outfit can boost my sense of confidence and self-esteem, but I think, more than I would normally like to admit, that this is often the case.

Anyhow, part of my reason for writing about the skirt was to process some of the contemplations I've been having lately about my whiteness. I have heard or read somewhere (more than once) that it is the great privilege of the white person in North American and European societies to not have to think about the color of their skin. We whites have the advantage - we are the majority and often the wealthier race (by far). We don't have to contemplate our advantage and the racial power differential unless we choose to. And that ability to choose - and to remain ignorant if we desire - is itself a great privilege and advantage.

Here in Uganda, though, especially immersed in the life of a rural village, I find myself the stranger and the racial minority (by far!). And I discover that the choice has been taken away from me. Children stare and yell "bye-ee mzungu" (mzungu = white person). Michael, my youngest brother, continues to call me "mjungu" rather than any of my names. People thank me for doing the simplest tasks, for coming to Uganda, for learning their language. Again and again, I am reminded that I am different. First impressions are always formed on the basis of my skin pigmentation. I do not appreciate all the assumptions - that I am weak, that I am rich, that I am an expert on all things American - but I am beginning to expect them. I do not like - or feel that I deserve - the sense of celebrity status that my skin seems to have afforded me, but I am learning to laugh and wave anyway. It is not fair or right that people treat me as if I am better than them.

I often wish my whiteness was something I could hide, something that did not so quickly label me as a stranger, an outsider. It is strange, this dynamic. I have been stripped of the anonymity my white skin grants me in America. But the privilege and advantage of that same whiteness has not only become more obvious, it has also increased in tangible ways.

A month, a year from now, how will I feel about this? How will it affect my life and relationships when I return to America? Only time will tell, though already it tires me to always be so aware of my racial identity. Some days, I wish for another mzungu in town. I wish to be treated as simply another family member, another villager - and that is slowly beginning to happen. But mostly, I wish to be known first as a person, rather than as a mzungu.

Boda Boda

Today, for the first time, I have ridden on a boda boda - and not once, but twice (and will again to get home to my village this evening).
Bodas are common forms of transport in these parts. They are motocycle taxis... the driver sits in front, and a passenger pays to sit behind him. Perhaps half of the drivers where helmets, and none of the riders (I have one provided my MCC... it sits beside me as I type). And women must always sit side-saddle, grasping the seat back rather than the driver. Roads are narrow and dusty, and bodas often have to swerve to the very edge when a truck or taxi (15 passenger van) is passing. All this I knew... and I was fairly nervous to try it for the first time.
My first chance came unexpectedly. This morning, I was hiking the mile or two (uphill both ways) to my school to visit with the teachers and ask some questions about preparing my lesson schemes. When I left my house, the sun was very strong... I wore sunscreen and sunglasses. But as I walked toward St Jude, the sky began to darken. Suddenly, it started to rain. I was closer to school than home, so I kept walking, quickly becoming chilled and wet. Within a few minutes, a boda drove up. The driver was an elderly man, and he carried no passenger. He asked where I was going, then said, "some help, nyabo," i.e. he was offering me a lift. Unable to refuse, I took it. My first boda ride was fairly short and helmet-less... I clutched tightly most of the way. But, I didn't fall off or anything else drastic... :)
My second boda ride was planned. This afternoon, my sister and I rode bodas to Kangalay (don't even try to pronounce it!), where she caught a taxi to her boarding school and I jumped in a special hire (car taxi) to come to Masaka. I wore my helmet and visited with the driver, who was glad for a chance to practice his English. A nice fellow, his contact is now saved in my phone for future excursions :) This ride was a few miles, and as I became more comfortable, I clutched a bit less tightly (I often see women not holding on at all, often with a baby or bag in their laps).

And so, I have come to Masaka alone, feeling both anxious and exhilarated at the sense of adventure that comes with this chance. Thankfully, the town is fairly small, so it is a good place to get a sense of my own ability to find my way around and communicate in broken Luganda.

And to get home, I will again take a taxi and a boda boda...

Water of Life...

The first rays of light creep through my curtains and mosquito net, and I open my eyes. Morning has come again. I drift back to sleep for some minutes until I hear the back door opening and my maama calling my sisters to wake up.
Quickly, I push aside my net and roll out of bed. I rub my eyes as I walk down the hall to the bathing room, where I brush my teeth and wash my face. Then, back to my room, where I trade my shorts for a skirt and pull on long sleeves. I head outside, where my youngest sister is waiting for me to walk to the well with her, a few jerry cans in tow.
As we walk the half mile or so, I watch the sun rise and the village begin to awaken. It is quiet today; the power has still not come back on since it went off yesterday.
We arrive at the well around 6:45. Another sister is already there, waiting in the queue of children for our turn to pump. The day has begun.
My thanks to UNICEF for the bore hole well from which we pump every drop of water we use. Each day, my arms and hands grow stronger from pumping. I still cannot fill a full can (I'd guestimate about 3-5 gallons) by myself, but my 12 year old sister and I can fill the 6-8 cans our family brings each morning (the family of Katongole Joseph uses a lot of water!). Once our cans are full, we line them up, then begin the trek home with the first few.
The walk which seems so pleasant in the wee hours of dawn now seems to take much longer, though my pace quickens each day. Last week, half of the pumping and walking to and fro one or two times was about all I could manage before my hands were blistered and I only wanted to lay down. This morning, my sisters have told me I have "much power" - I now walk to and fro twice during their first time.
By 8:00, we have carried home every drop of water that will be used for that day's cooking, bathing, drinking, washing, and cleaning.
Water.
It is necessary for life to exist. It has a sacred place in most every major religion. It is one of the world's natural resources. Some places, it is taken for granted, used in excess, bought and sold, and often, polluted. But here, in Bukoto village, water is not so easy to come by, particularly during the dry season. And already, after only a week, I can no longer drink a single cup without considering the sweat and labor necessary to bring it to me.
Today, it sickens me to consider how much water is wasted every day in my native country. Gallons flushed every time you urinate, drained when you run your 20 minute showers. Watered lawns and sparkling cars. Bottles bought because you don't like the taste of tap water.
Dear America, as you use and abuse water to your heart's content, may you remember your Baganda brothers and sisters, the small ones who trudge to the pump multiple times every day, seekng only the water of life.

Until we meet again...

I feel like the last few months have been filled with farewells. It is a strange thing, this saying "goodbye." In some ways, I will never be separated from these people - friends and family who share my heart and know my soul. Neither time nor space can tear apart the bonds of love and care. And yet, geographically, we will spend the next year on separate continents, living in entirely different contexts. We will not see each other for longer than we desire. And soon, even internet and mail will be less available than I am used to.

So, it seems appropriate to say "goodbye," even though my deepest hope is that we shall meet again in a year or so. Many of these farewells have been tinged with sadness - how I wish that the paths and stories of this year of our lives would not be so distant from one another. I am reminded of a scene from Tom Brown's book, Grandfather. Grandfather, a native North American tracker, has spent a period of time living and learning alongside Parrot, a South American mystic. When he feels called by the Spirit to move on, Grandfather slips away in the night without saying goodbye, knowing that he and Parrot will meet again. And, though he chooses not to say farewell, both Grandfather and Parrot are saddened by the departure. Mostly, this is how I feel. I know I will see again those I love, and yet, it is hard to be parted from them for so long. My journey is moving in a new (and exciting direction), but some days, I wish for more familiar faces along its path.

Yet another line comes to mind as I contemplate these farewells. It is from The Ramayana and has stuck with me since I read it almost a year ago. I think it was a farewell blessing offered by a king when his son was leaving, but it may have simply been an opening quote. I will leave you with this line...

Return to me when I remember you.

Thinking quickly, talking slowly...

My thoughts are going a million miles an hour in about as many different directions. A multitude of blog entries have been ruminating in my mind for the past few months but have never quite made it to post. A sampling of what's been running through my head...

Since Saturday, I've been in the tiny town of Akron, PA, where MCC has pulled together approximately 100 young adults from around the world for the SALT/IVEP/YAMEN orientation. Wondering about those acronyms? SALT, the program I'm doing, sends young adults from the US or Canada to work with MCC partners in countries around the world for a year. IVEP brings young adults from MCC's international partners to volunteer in the US or Canada for the same time period. YAMEN bypasses North America and lets young adults from MCC's international partners serve with other international partners (for example, a young Ethiopian will be serving in Indonesia). This week is filled with sessions about cross-cultural life, MCC, finances, etc., as well as abundant opportunities to start and build relationships with both fellow SALTers and those who will be serving through IVEP or YAMEN.

This week is very much a transitory time. My suitcases are not unpacked, and I am trying to keep track of everything to make sure I don't throw off my careful weight distribution. I spent the summer saying goodbyes and now find myself building close friendships with people I will depart from in only a few days. Orientation also offers a transitory space between cultures. Given our location in Akron, the underlying cultural norms are obviously still those of North America: there is a strong time orientation, the majority of every session is conducted in English, and the surrounding town is mostly composed of white middle-class families. And yet, I find myself conversing with Pennsylvanians as often as with Indonesians, Bolivians, and Brazilians. For many of our group, English is not a first language, and some would not even claim fluency. And so, session speakers will be reminded to "speak slower and louder," and there are constant whispered translations or explanations. Conversations about what to expect on assignment in East Africa or Southeast Asia are as frequent as those about how to adapt to life in Kansas, Oregon, or Vancouver. I am learning to see the world a bit more through the eyes of my brothers and sisters from around the world. And, as I slow my speech and enunciate more carefully, I know that I will soon be in a context where everything is just as unfamiliar to me as this place is to them. I hope for friendship, hospitality, and understanding as I take on the same challenge of learning new cultural norms and a new language.